The Flying Hours
by MelusinaHP
Summary: He was greeting Harry, Ron and Hermione in the Room of Requirement, he was under the Sorting Hat for the second time, and he was slicing off the head of Voldemort's great snake and saying goodbye to his qualms about being sorted into Gryffindor..."


It was getting late and Neville was running out of things to straighten, file and organise in his office. The Flitterbloom had been watered, the knotgrass charmed to be self-spraying and the bouncing bulbs repotted. The previous year's parchments had been sorted and filed, lesson plans had been written, books chosen and ordered. The greenhouses were fully stocked with supplies. Everything was all set for the new year to start in a couple of months, and Neville had run out of excuses to linger. It had been hard enough convincing Hannah that he'd needed to go in to Hogwarts in the middle of the summer, and, of course, he really hadn't. What he'd needed was some time to himself, some time to think away from the noise and wild energy of the Three Broomsticks.

They'd all be waiting for him. Hannah would be glancing at the clock, her smile getting bigger as it always did when she was nervous and trying to hide it. He should leave and go home. He should have left an hour ago.

Forty.

That was what was keeping him in his office. A number.

Forty.

How the hell did it happen? The memory of the Sorting Hat sliding down over his eyes as he sat in front of the entire population of Hogwarts feeling more terror than he'd ever before experienced, and – to his lasting shock – being sorted into Gryffindor anyway, was still fresh in his mind. It could have happened yesterday. It could have been yesterday that he had spent a cold, uncomfortable night Petrified on the floor after being hexed for trying to stop his housemates losing Gryffindor yet more points. It could have been yesterday that he was swirling Ginny Weasley across the floor during the Yule Ball and feeling his heart constrict when she never once took her eyes off Harry. It could have been yesterday that Professor Sprout took him aside and offered to give him extracurricular lessons because she could see that he had "the greenest fingers since Larchwood Fernby grew Singing Daffodils out of saltstone."

He was fighting in the Department of Mysteries, he was watching Hannah in Herbology, noticing how the refracted light in the greenhouse danced through her bright brown hair. He'd never said a word about it to anyone, but Luna had known instinctively and told him at once when Hannah had confessed to her that Neville's feelings were reciprocated. He was facing up to Amycus Carrow and taking his punishment without giving him the satisfaction of screaming. He was greeting Harry, Ron and Hermione in the Room of Requirement, he was under the Sorting Hat for the second time, and he was slicing off the head of Voldemort's great snake and saying goodbye to his qualms about being sorted into Gryffindor once and for all.

How long ago did that happen? Twenty-three years ago? Impossible. Simply impossible.

Neville stood and walked to the northern wall off his office on which the Sword of Gyffindor was now mounted. Harry had insisted on it when Neville was made Head of Gryffindor House, and Harry generally got what he wanted. He ran his hand over the metal, so cold and smooth, like liquid glass. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember its weight in his hands, the thrill of feeling it slice through the snake's neck and the relief of knowing he'd done what Harry had asked of him – that at the very least there was that.

Harry would be waiting for him, along with all the others. Neville glanced at his watch and shuddered. He really had to leave, or risk being inexcusably rude. Hannah would have his head.

That was the worst he had to fear these days – the wrath of his five foot four inch wife. Hannah was formidable enough when crossed, but she was no giant snake. Smiling as he pulled on his coat, Neville felt a rush of warmth for his wife. He imagined her getting ready for the party. He knew there was going to be a party; he'd begged her to let his fortieth birthday pass quietly, but Hannah loved entertaining their friends and there was no way she was going to let this opportunity pass by without a celebration.

Forty. Bugger it all.

He closed and locked his office door and proceeded down the corridor towards the stairway. So familiar. He'd taken this path more times than he could remember. Beginning to rush, Neville hoped he'd make it home in time to keep Hannah from being embarrassed. He was looking forward to seeing his friends. He really was. Harry and Ron had been so busy recently with work and children, they didn't often get the chance to meet up anymore.

He moved out into the evening, through the grounds, through the ancient gates and winged boars. The gates closed behind Neville, locking themselves with a grinding click. Now it was time to Apparate into Hogsmeade. Now it was time to go home.

Neville found that he couldn't move. He closed his eyes and stood still, letting the sounds of the surrounding forest wash though him, feeling his heart beating, thinking… i I could still be seventeen. I don't feel any different. With my eyes closed, the years might not even have passed. /i

And then he did Apparate into Hogsmeade. He did go to a pub. It wasn't the Three Broomsticks, however.

It has been years – more than a decade – since Neville had been inside the Hog's Head. The wizard who took over after Aberforth retired hadn't given the place any more class than it had ever had. It still smelt of goats and it was still full of people Neville's grandmother would have referred to as "dodgy characters." Someone quite short, wide and lumpy wearing dusty, grey robes was seated at the bar, spread across two barstools. A glass half full of a thick, green liquid sat bubbling by the person's – unidentifiable as either male or female from Neville's vantage point – elbow on the bar. Two elderly wizards were hunched towards each other in the window alcove, both glaring fixedly down at the wizard's chessboard on which only five pieces remained. A thin witch wearing silver robes dotted with purple sequins leant against the wall, giving Neville the hairy eyeball, her mouth bent in a sneer. Neville raised an eyebrow at her and moved his glance onwards. The bartender – a tiny, bald man with unfeasibly large hands for his size watched Neville with narrow eyes, taking in his tidy robes and countenance. Nodding at the man, Neville raked his eyes over the rest of the pub, searching, knowing he'd know the person once he saw him.

The man he wanted was sitting alone at a table by the fire. He looked slightly older than Neville and decidedly more dangerous. His hair was dark and hung in thick, matted locks which dangled to the small of his back. A thick scar ran diagonally across his face from forehead to jowl, cutting across one missing eye, leaving his nose bent and misshapen. Neville wondered what sort of dark magic or creature had left such a scar on the man's face. Over ten empty glasses littered the table at which he sat. It was his remaining eye, however, that drew Neville in. The man's small, black, bloodshot eye was misty with drink and burning with drunken anger. He looked mean. He looked dangerous. He was exactly the sort of bloke Neville was looking for.

First, however, Neville needed a drink of his own. He marched to the bar and ordered a firewhisky, gulping it down in one once it arrived and immediately regretting it as the burn down his gullet almost made it come right back up again. He drank the next glass more slowly, feeling it warm his stomach and cloud his mind. Neville didn't usually drink all that much. The liquor was going straight to his head, just as he'd hoped it would. Three further firewhiskys later, and he was ready.

Making sure he knew exactly which pocket held his wand, Neville marched up to the dark man's table, and deliberately knocked his drink over, spilling it over the table and onto the man's lap. Then he stood back and waited, smirking.

The man didn't move.

Well, not for a good thirty seconds. Then he blinked, looked down at his sodden lap and said, "Eh? What's 'appened 'ere?"

Neville stared at him. The man must have been drunker than he'd thought. "I spilled your drink," he said, flatly.

"Why'd yeh go an' do that, then?" The man peered up at Neville, bleary eyed and peeved-looking.

With his head spinning from firewhisky, ignoring the sinking sensation in his abdomen, Neville pressed on. "I don't like your face." Immediately, he winced. It was a tacky thing to say to a man with such a visible scar, even if you were trying to pick a fight with him.

Red-veined eye widening with hurt, the man gaped up at Neville. "Rude bastard." The man remained seated, but straightened his back and broadened his shoulders. "Lookin' fer some trouble, are yeh?"

Neville thrilled, his pulse racing, and grinned. He reached forwards and pushed the man firmly on one of his shoulders, having to take a couple steps to keep his footing afterwards. The man snarled at him, and Neville pushed him again – on his forehead this time. The man rose to his feet and turned to face Neville, making the empty glasses on the table rattle dangerously. He was tall; taller than Neville had expected and broad as well. As the man glared down at Neville, his ruined face further twisted with anger, Neville felt a glorious shiver of fear and excitement rush through his body. This was what he needed. This was exactly what he needed. His hand crept to his wand pocket.

With a loud, "Harumph!" the man slammed into Neville with his side and pushed him out of the way. Neville stumbled backwards, his wand now gripped firmly in his hand, his teeth bared, aching for the fight to begin.

Grumbling loudly, "Can't even have a bloody drink in peace these days…" the man stumbled away from Neville. Neville, his body still tensed in a duelling stance, watched him retreat. As the man neared the exit, Neville felt his mouth fall open. He was leaving. He was only bloody leaving. Disappointment tangled with adrenaline, and Neville felt the room spin around his head. As the man pushed through the exit and disappeared out into the night. Neville straightened his posture and put his wand away.

His shoulders ached. He'd clearly pulled a muscle in his back at some point. He was injured, and he hadn't even got to fight! A feeling of pathos verging on depression crept silkily through his veins.

Another drink. Another drink was a definite necessity. Neville turned towards the bar only to find himself reeling backwards as crushing pain shot through the left side of his head and face.

With a hand clutched over one eye and his other eye streaming from pain and shock, Neville could only see a blur of purple and silver flashing in front of him. A high-pitched voice screeched in his ears. "What you doing bothering our customers? You come in here in your fancy robes, like you reckon you're better'n us, spill Reggie's drink, and chase him off well before closing time. Does it look like we can afford to have our regulars chased off? Who d'you think you are, anyway, comin' in 'ere? Bloody ponce in your fancy robes. Piss off, then! Piss off home and don't come back! Go on!"

The second punch hit him in the gut, and he folded forwards, clutching his stomach. The woman was strong for such a skinny looking little thing. Neville found himself staggering backwards, trying to escape her assault. She kicked at his knee and he almost fell to the floor as he jerked to the side, trying to avoid her foot. "I didn't mean to…"

"Shut it! Just get out!"

"But…"

The woman lowered her head and charged towards him with a warlike shriek. Neville needed no further encouragement, but turned and fled, bursting out of the Hog's Head and then reeling into the street. He stood, the world rotating around him, sweating in the heat of the summer night and wondering if he was going to be sick. After a moment or two he was able to regain some equilibrium and gather his thoughts.

So. That experiment had failed.

Sighing and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Neville began to trudge homeward. He had a pretty good idea of what was waiting for him there and felt a creeping sense of shame, but he was also looking forward to seeing Hannah. Perhaps she'd understand. Perhaps she'd forgive him. Perhaps she'd sit him down, give him a cup of hot tea and scratch the back of his neck while resting her head against his shoulder as he poured his heart out to her.

Or maybe she'd slap him across the face and make him sleep in the garden.

One foot found its way in front of the other. Eventually he heard voices and tried to veer off to the side to avoid them. As soon as he did this, however, one of them cried out, "Neville!"

"Yes! Look, I see him!"

Then, "Oi! Neville! Where've you been, mate?"

A rumble of pattering footsteps, movement and shadows, hands on his back and shoulders and suddenly the sky was slightly farther away, floating above his face and he was flat on his back. Someone was slapping him. Well, okay, more like patting him, but the touch – gentle as it was – was pulling him out of the lovely darkness he'd fallen into and that irritated Neville quite a bit. "Neville! Are you all right? Merlin, how much have you had to drink?" Harry's face came into focus, floating above him.

"A bit," Neville replied, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"What happened to your face?" Hermione peered down at him, her brow creased. "Have you been fighting?"

"A bit," Neville repeated quietly, staring at his hands in his lap. There was no way he was going to tell them what had actually happened. No bloody way.

"Well," said Ron, "I hope the other bloke's got two dodgy eyes at least." He thumped Neville on the back, making him cough and splutter.

"Hannah's worried sick, you know," Ginny was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow raised. Neville closed his eyes.

They didn't press him for explanations. They just helped him up and stayed by his side as he lumbered home, the firewhisky now making his head pound in congress with his pulse. He pretended not to notice the sympathetic, knowing glances that the women gave each other or Ron's overly hearty tone or Harry's look of worry and confusion.

They accompanied him through the pub – which looked sad and empty despite, or rather because of – the balloons and banner exclaiming, "Happy 40th Birthday Neville!!" -- and up the stairs into the hallway leading to their flat. The sound of Hannah's sobs carried out of the lounge. Neville let his face fall forwards into his hands.

"Good luck, mate," said Ron, clapping a hand on Neville shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards, "and, er, happy birthday?"

Neville let his hands drop. "Thanks, Ron. I'll talk to you soon."

First Hermione and then Ginny gave him hugs and birthday greetings. Ginny leaned forwards and whispered in his ear, "You be good to her." Neville shot her an apologetic look and her expression softened and she gave him an extra squeeze before slipping away after Ron and Hermione.

Harry lingered a moment longer, his eyes scanning Neville's face. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Sure, Harry. I'll be fine. Just had a bit too much to drink, that's all."

"That's all? You sure?"

Neville sighed.

"Okay. Okay. Go take care of Hannah. And happy birthday, Neville."

One Harry was gone Neville really didn't have any choice. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and courage, his swollen eye pounding painfully, and then entered the lounge. Hannah had apparently stopped crying once she'd heard him come in, but her face was still red, puffy and streaked with tears. Luna sat next to her, an arm around his wife's shoulders. At least she hadn't been left alone.

Neville cleared his throat.

Hannah stood, glaring, and walked up to him, her eyes flitting over his dirty robes and coming to rest on his black eyes. Looking down at her heartbroken face he felt a wave of regret roll through him. He cringed and tried to cup her cheek. "Hannah… I'm so sorry… I… I wasn't thinking properly…"

She made a sound like an angry cat and stormed out of the room. Neville stood quietly, listening to her footsteps pounding up the stairs and winced at the sound of their bedroom door slamming shut.

Then silence. Well, silence apart from Neville's breathing.

When Luna finally spoke, he jumped a foot. He'd completely forgotten she was there. "Don't worry, Neville. She's upset now, but deep down she understands. She's going through the same thing, you know. We all are, really. Well, maybe not Harry. I imagine his adulthood is quite a bit nicer than his childhood or adolescence was."

He just stared at her. As he looked at her, her image seemed to fluctuate – one second there was Luna as she currently appeared – a grown woman whose dark blonde hair was shot liberally with grey and whose large blue eyes were circled by feathery lines – and next he saw his old school friend tripping dreamily through the corridors at Hogwarts, radish earrings swinging as she moved. It was surreal. Where was that girl now? Where was the boy he had been?

Luna stood and took his hand. Meekly, he followed her as she led him down the stairs, through the pub and out into the garden. Once there, she sat them both down on one of the stone benches. It was late, past midnight, but the night was mild. Luna gazed at him with her dreamy eyes and smiled. "You know, I always thought I'd have children. Or at least one child. I always thought I'd have a daughter. We tried. I waited. But it never ended up happening. And now it never will, I suppose. And I always thought I'd see a real, live Crumple-Horned Snorkack one day. I was sure of it. But all those trips, all those journeys and adventures, and I never saw a single one."

Neville looked at Luna sideways. She looked up at the sky and then pointed as the small but unmistakable silhouette of a Thestral floated silently through the air over the Forbidden Forest far in the distance. They both watched silently as the first Thestral was joined by a second and then both swooped downwards and disappeared from view.

"I've spent a lot of time with James, Albus, Lily, Rose and Hugo, though," Luna went on. "Teddy and I know each other quite well, too. I may not have had any of my own, but I did get to watch my friends' children grow up and that was rather wonderful. And I travel all over the world. I guess that would have been harder with children. I may never have seen a Snorkack, but I saw a flock of Diricawls in Mauritius and lived amongst a herd of unicorns for six months. Once, I even met a man who tamed Manticores for a living."

The garden was silent but for the sounds of their breathing. Occasionally, a gnome would scamper across the grass.

"Hannah was telling us about the new variety of Gurdyroot you're developing with your students."

Neville brightened. "Yeah! We crossbred it with a rare strain of Nigerian dittany. It's got all sorts of potential applications, particularly in medicine. It's very exciting. St. Mungos is already using experimental tinctures to treat patients with Dragon Pox, and the results have been wonderful. One boy – he was no more than eight – was able to get out of bed and walk for the first time in six months. I'll never forget the look on his face."

Luna was grinning at him. Neville felt rather caught out. "It's not over yet, you know," she said. "Maybe the parts that make our blood rush will be fewer and farther apart, but there's still plenty of life ahead of us."

One particularly audacious or stupid gnome had been bold enough to creep over to Neville's shoes and attempt to tie their laces together. He kicked it away into the bushes. He didn't respond to Luna, but just sat in silence thinking about what she had said. After a while he nodded, and said, "I'd better go see Hannah."

"Okay," said Luna serenely.

They walked back through the pub. When they got to the door Neville said, "Thanks."

"It's what friends are for, isn't it?" Luna replied and gave him a small hug. Neville hugged her back. "Happy fortieth birthday," she said and then walked off into the night.

Once he was alone Neville closed the door, locked it. Then he turned to go upstairs to climb into bed next to Hannah. Despite his anxiety, he knew in his heart that her love for the man he'd become was great enough for her to forgive him for having trouble letting go of the boy he'd been.

THE END

"Love and Life"

Love and Life

All my past life is mine no more;

The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams given o'er,

Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

-- John Wilmot, from "Love and Life"


End file.
